Sherlock's Words
by Zerestor
Summary: Mycroft wishes it was as simple as 'Sherlock. Genuis.' Preferable to explaining why Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas at 3pm, or why the butter dish was on the living room floor and the butter somewhere unmentionable. And infinitely preferable to telling yet another idiot that lipreading meant reading lips not back's of heads and that Deaf meant Deaf not stupid.
1. Sherlock Loves

**Sherlock's Words**

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock was a clever boy. Sherlock was in fact a genius. Written tests had varified that.

Of course people thought this meant he would excel at everything he did. Exceed all expectations at school. Create, invent, wow and amaze. Bedazzle even.

Sherlock was Deaf, but of course this wasn't what held him back.

Of course it was what the therapists, psychologists, teachers and case workers thought. But Mycroft knew better.

Deaf was what it was. Unfortunately the world was what it was too.

Sherlock was socially inept. Later he would tag himself as a high functioning sociopath. But as a child he was just ended up being strange, difficult and Deaf.

All those clever, immense thoughts whirling around inside. Mycroft sometimes thought that if Sherlock spoke, then people would realise that he was clever, and maybe even admire what he had to contribute. Of course he'd still be socially inept, rude, aggressive, unlikeable even.

Sherlock could, naturally speak English, perfectly well. But that's not how he chose to communicate, however simplier that would have made things. On one hand Mycroft wanted to be infuriated but on the other hand he could hardly fault his brother for choosing to communicate in his first language. Hardly fault Sherlock for wanting to communicate with the language where his receptive skills could match his productive. It was hardly Sherlock's fault that the rest of the world couldn't be bothered to learn. After all Mycroft had learnt.

So Sherlock became just a Deaf child, with the social complications that came from being Deaf. 'Sherlock's anger stems from a lack of communication skills.' 'Sherlock's aggression is rooted in confusion.' Wrong! Mycroft would whisper under his breath. They'd got it all wrong. Sherlock wasn't angry because he didn't understand. He was angry because the world didn't understand him. And Sherlock never did see the point in talking to, in communicating with those he deemed beneath him. Mummy and Daddy barely got a nod on some days.

So it was left to Mycroft alone to tug out ideas from Sherlock's giant, big, stubborn mind.

Explain Sherlock, explain. Write down your ideas. Mycroft bullied Sherlock into writing, into using a computer, into looking at his interpreter rather than ignoring her, into communicating with others. Showing how Sherlock could use what others gave him. Demonstrating to Sherlock the purpose and meaning in communicating. Impressing on him the unfair truth that Sherlock would need to give his world more than he could expect in return. Mycroft did what he could.

Perhaps it was these things that made Sherlock hate his brother. Or maybe it was the grateful look Sherlock could read in Mummy's gaze as Mycroft 'took care' of Sherlock when he was being difficult. Or maybe it was just what little brothers were meant to do. Or maybe it was just Sherlock. Sherlock versus Mycroft. Sherlock versus the world.

Things did not go well when Mycroft left for University.

Eventually Mycroft came back and took Sherlock with him. Mummy did her best to hide her relief as she hugged Sherlock against her to say goodbye, and kissed his cheek, but Sherlock saw it all. But for once he didn't tell her that. Mycroft remembers Mummy pushing Sherlock back. Her fingers insistently telling Sherlock to look at her. She jabbed the index finger of her right hand against her breastbone, before pressing her left hand against her chest, her right palm beating against it 'love', and then the name sign that she used for Sherlock – hands held close to her mouth - an S and a H, and the flick of her bunched fingers away from the corner of the month, the sign for beautiful. Sherlock beautiful. Finally she swiped her right thumb over her left thumb, again and again. Best. Best.

Mycroft had watched on, remembering all those past occasions as Sherlock grew up and Mummy would sign to Sherlock, over and over the same words and demands.

_S H beautiful. S H beautiful. Look at Mummy. Look. Look. Copy. Copy. Sherlock Beautiful._ _S. H. Beautiful. Mummy loves Sherlock. Mummy loves. Mummy loves. Look Sherlock. Mummy loves Sherlock Beautiful. Best.  
_  
Sherlock would stare directly back at her. His level of upset indicated by how tightly his fingers gripped his hair. On an average day Sherlock would shake his head back and forth. On a bad day there would be wailing and Sherlock twisting tightly against Mummy as her hands curled around his wrists. On a good day, which was categorised as any day that Sherlock decided he would communicate with the world, in some way, Sherlock would sign back at Mummy. 'No. No. No beautiful. No beautiful. Mycroft best. Mycroft best.' His signs aggressive, angry, sad.

But as they all stood in the hallway of the family home, dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight valiantly trying to light the dark mahogany panelling on the dim corridor walls, Mycroft could remember specifically thinking _Bad day. Bad day. _According to Mummy there had been little else since Mycroft had left. _Bad day. Bad day. _And Mycroft summarised that Mummy was thinking the same thing as her hands reached carefully towards Sherlock. Then Sherlock 's fingers relaxed the death grip they had on his hair. Mummy's hands had halted in their movement toward him. And Mycroft's thoughts rapidly flicked to _average day. Normal day. Average day. Normal day. _As his brain rapidly categorised how everything since Sherlock refused to eat dinner last night until Sherlock threw all his clothes on the floor from his suitcase after Mommy's careful packing just half an hour ago was indicating that this was not a good day this was going to be a bad day. But his brain hiccupped as Sherlock, returning Mummy's stare carefully lifted his hands up to sign.

_Sherlock loves Mummy. Loves. _

In his odd way, but entirely Sherlock way he finger spelt his first name quickly and precisely, and his sign for love was economical. But the intent was there.

A d Mycroft's brain finally restarted as he processed this new side to his baby brother.

In return Mummy signed her love and her good byes to Mycroft. And let Sherlock see her tell Mycroft to look after his brother and work hard at his studies. And Sherlock had stared at her hands and her face almost as if it were all new. Mycroft summarised that Sherlock hadn't ever seen those words from his mother's hands, though she spoke the words regularly enough. Look after your brother. Look after him well. And no one said a word as Mycroft and Sherlock left the house.


	2. Does Sherlock Like That?

Chapter Two

Stalemate.

Mycroft picked the thrown book up off the floor. Checking the cover, _Fundamentals of Chemistry,_he turned towards his brother, one eyebrow raised.

'Really Sherlock, re-reading your old A-Level Chemistry textbooks again…..I thought always said you weren't one for sentiment….'

But Sherlock's eyes were now fixed on the ceiling and Mycroft's words were lost to the room. Sherlock's body language was relaxed as he lay back on the sofa. But Mycroft could see the lines of tension there, just under the surface.

So Mycroft took his time straightening out the book's cover before finding a space for it on the cluttered mantelpiece, propping it between a copy of _Pear's Encyclopaedia 1997-1998 _and a stained blue and white striped mug. Mycroft's fingers itched towards a small but by no means insubstantial pile of unopened letters, but he made do with unnecessarily straightening a collection of three business cards. He carefully drew each one forward with his right forefinger till they lined up with the edge of the mantelpiece. A cab company based in Walthamstow, an estates agent on Leyton High Road, and the third, a cream card with only a line drawing, in pale red ink of a cuckoo – mildly intrigued Mycroft flicked it over to read the reverse. Someone, a young man, probably had scrawled in blue biro a mobile number alongside the words _text me._ The word text was unlined. Mycroft flipped it back over and carefully pushed it into place, before turning back around to Sherlock.

Sherlock was the same as before, his fingers steepled together and resting on his lips, his eyes fixed at some unknown point on the ceiling. But Mycroft's eyes were drawn to Sherlock's bare feet. Mycroft watched as the toes flexed and straightened as Sherlock alternatively pushed the pads of his toes and then the heels of his feet against the fabric of the sofa.

Mycroft remembers a memory of a red faced 6 year old Sherlock on the floor of his nursery. Nanny had rushed off to get Mummy, leaving Mycroft standing listlessly by the nursery door. Mycroft had watched as his brother's small pudgy hands gripped and pulled at his hair, at the red rug on the floor, then at his stretched and twisted white tee-shirt which was bunched up around his armpits revealing a rounded pale tummy covered in red streaks where nails had dug in. Then Mummy had come rushing in. 'Oh hush, hush darling.' Falling gracefully to Sherlock's side she reached out grabbing at Sherlock's head, shoulders and then his arms. And that's when the noises started. Animal grunts of pain. Mummy's hands slid down over Sherlock's chest tugging and straightening the teeshirt, before sliding down over his twisting body trying to sooth until they reached his feet. And suddenly Sherlock stopped.

_'Does Sherlock like that?' _Mummy had crooned. '_Does Sherlock like Mummy squeezing his feet?'_

Sherlock had stared down at Mummy his face red and blotchy and the forefinger and middle finger of his right hand planted firmly in his mouth as she spoke. Then as Mummy's hands had continued to rub and squeez his feet, Sherlock's eyes roved around the room till they found Mycroft.

Are you _alright_? Mycroft signed. Sherlock shook his right hand at his feet in a loose sign for pain.

'Now?' Mycroft queried in slight alarm. Sherlock shock his head and waved his hand over his shoulder. No. Before.

'His socks. His socks.' The Nanny had said, helplessly later. 'I just wanted him to put his socks on.'

Of course the next time he threw a fit, Sherlock kicked the nurse in the head when she tried grabbing his feet. _He's not an idiot, _Mycroft had wanted to shout, _Ask him what hurts. Ask him what's wrong._

Now - in Sherlock's dingy flat, Mycroft had a sudden urge to reach towards Sherlock's feet. To grasp and squeeze and soothe. But of course he's not stupid, it wasn't the feet this time. There is the tell-tale sign of white finger tipped pushed tightly together so they won't betray Sherlock and reach up to tug at his ears.

Mycroft sighs and reaches down to tug at the bottom of his waistcoat.

'Too much.'

Mycroft looked up sharply at the sound of his brother's voice.

'What?' He speaks and waves his right forefinger at the same time.

'Too much. I need to _think_. And when I'm wearing them it's too much. Too much...' Sherlock ground to a frustrated halt. 'Sound.' He huffed out a breath. Wrong word thought Mycroft.

With another huff Sherlock reverted to sign. Mycroft let himself lose himself in the movement of Sherlock's hands. Jealous. Just for a moment.

Stop. Wait. Signed Mycroft, both hands outstretched.

Sherlock stopped.

I don't think you should wear your hearing aid all the time. Just when you need it.

Sherlock's hands were a flurry. Don't need. Emphatically. Don't need.

Stop. Wait. Stop. Mycroft's hands said again.

You choose. You choose, when you use it. When it helps. When it solves something for you.

Tapping a right index finger against his temple. Think.

Sherlock stared at him then huffed out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

His head flopped back against the sofa's armrest.

Mycroft took that as his cue to leave.

Goodbye Sherlock, he said to the room. Sherlock didn't look at him but raised one hand in an absent minded wave.

Mycroft carefully made his way downstairs, taking care to slam the front door as he left.

Upstairs Sherlock smiled, wriggled his toes and sighed.


	3. An Exact Science

**Chapter 3 **

And finally Sherlock had looked up at John. And John repeated his question.

'So you can lipread, right?'

John held Sherlock's gaze. With a frustrated frown Sherlock thrust out his right hand, palm down, fingers splayed and waggled it from side to side, his lips pursed and shoulders slightly hunched. Ok. Alright. Ish.

'You're alright...' John began. But Sherlock was now looking away from him staring down at his hand where he still held it in front of his chest, his gaze flicked back to John's face, and his upper lip curled as he saw John had started speaking.

John stuttered to a halt. 'Sorry. Sorry.' He muttered, both hands outstretched towards Sherlock .

'Sorry. Right. Ok.'

Taking a slightly fortifying breath in he lowered himself carefully down onto the armchair, which was positioned opposite the sofa Sherlock lay stretched out on. He thumped the cushion behind his lower back and hooked his cane over the arm of the chair before looking up and meeting cool, grey eyes dead-on.

'Sorry. ' John repeated. Sherlock inclined his head slightly. Forgiven thought John. Then watching Sherlock's face for a reaction he spoke his next words carefully, 'You can lipread fine.'

Sherlock mouth opened and his hands started to come up.

'Right. Not fine.' John amended quickly. 'You can lipread as well, as anyone can lipread.'

A raised eyebrow.

'Ok you can lipread better than most people. But lipreading isn't easy...it's not exact.'

Sherlock stared back impassively, though there was a faint crease between his eyebrows. John continued.

'And signing is better, if the other person can sign...as well as you do?'

Sherlock inclined his head slightly.

'And writing is...ok?'

Sherlock responded with several quick and fluid. The meaning of each sign was lost on John but he translated it roughly as 'I prefer to text.' He snorted at that. 'You like to make me text you mean.' Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth across John's face and the crease between his eyebrows deepened. John clumsily mimicked back what he presumed was the sign for text, pointed at himself and rolled his eyes.

'Soooo...' Continued John 'You and I are going to need to work this out. How you and I can communicate. How we can communicate better. Because we need that if we're going to be flatmates. So you need to help me with that Sherlock. Ok?' John's voice tapered off at the end and he hoped his meaning was understood.

Sherlock just stared back for a moment, then wet his lips, John almost thought he might speak. But instead all John got was a sniff and a twitch of the lips before Sherlock's gaze was once again tracing patterns on the ceiling. John decided this meant yes.

'Right.' John said, taking to himself as he levered himself up, out of the chair with a grunt. 'I'll see you when you next need a text message sending.' On his way pass he thumped the side of his sofa with his cane.

'One sugar John.' Sherlock's softly rounded voice called out.

Lipreading wasn't an exact science, but apparently the international thump for 'I'm putting the kettle on. Fancy one?' was well understood in 221B Baker Street.


	4. It's the Sounds

So they'd worked out the whole lip-reading thing. Well, John had worked out the whole lip-reading thing.

Which still left the problem of Sherlock.

John had fairly quickly worked out that Sherlock's lack of response to John at times (actually, no read _all of the bloody time Sherlock. You never listen_!... _Can't listen John. Deaf. Remember?... You know what I bloody mean! Are you listening? For f….that's great. That's just great.)_ wasn't because John's lips were actually any more difficult to read than any other person's lips. No - Sherlock just didn't like paying attention and could quite happily ignore most things including but not limited to Mrs Hudson's freshly baked breakfast muffins, Mycroft's text messages, traffic lights, the police, Do Not Enter signs and oh yes an ex-army surgeon standing right in front of his face. And then lo and behold confusion reigned when he re-entered the world and seemed surprised that the world (or John or Mycroft or the traffic lights or Mrs Hudson's breakfast muffins or _the police Sherlock!_) didn't just pick up where Sherlock had left off, or, in the case of the buttered muffins hadn't remained warm and toasty. John survived the former by pretending Sherlock had been 'gone' much longer than the actual 3 hours his brain had been switched off and John held out hope that one day Sherlock might actually fall for it and the latter, well let's just say John maybe needed to cut back on the muffins or at least invest in some low-fat flora. For the most part Sherlock's indignant self-absorbed anger at a world that did not and could not mould itself to his personal timetable was pretty amusing.

Then there were the other occasions – when John would watch as a word slipped under Sherlock's Jedi-like radar – his head whipping around almost as if he could catch the word disappearing over his shoulder or when Sherlock missed a verbal cue or a sound that all the _hearing_ people in the room heard and computed without _even thinking_. A polite cough, a sarcastic bend to a particular word or even a knock at the door could all throw him off his stride. In these cases Sherlock turned in on himself. It didn't matter, of course it didn't. Everyone had their weaknesses and their struggles and to be fair Sherlock's struggles were usually the fault of others. But it mattered to Sherlock. Sherlock who focussed his attention on these aspects of his life – observation, knowledge and deduction and wouldn't allow anything other than perfection. John would watch as Sherlock's hands gripped angrily, twisting his dark curly locks or whilst nails dug viciously into palms - knuckles strained white with the weight of imperfection. John carefully observed that the coping methods never went beyond the violence of little half-moon red lines dug into the underside of pale blue-veined forearms. Usually.

Lestrade had come over to ask for Sherlock's advice with a case – nothing too complicated but 'We're just getting ourselves confused, turning in circles. Thought you could unpick it.' Lestrade explained.

The case had involved a lot of names – people and places. Husbands and wives, sisters and daughters. People with the same surnames and titles. And a father and brother with the same name and two street names that sounded virtually identical to John and presumably looked indistinguishable to Sherlock. Lestrade had rattled everything off reading out loud from his pocketbook – well used to Sherlock's want and demand to absorb information as quickly as possible.

Except this time Sherlock (and John too) had quickly become confused. Sherlock all tangled and tense - had to ask several times for names to be repeated – frowning at Lestrade's lips in frustration. Back-tracking when he realised that there were two brothers and a sister not just two brothers. Eventually Lestrade had offered to write things down – to map it out for Sherlock. A perfectly reasonable suggestion of course. But Sherlock's hands had already reached up into his hair, repetitively gripping, twisting, tugging and releasing - after each repetition he shook his hair out violently as if the words might untangle themselves and tumble from between the dark strands. Twin spots of colour were high on his cheek bones and he rocked slightly - back and forth on his feet– as if itching to pace but unable to quite move, his eyes fixed on Lestrade.

Lestrade was standing hand outstretched offering his pocketbook to Sherlock, the crease between his eyes even more prominent than usual.

And 'NO.' Sherlock said loud and clearly all of a sudden. And for a moment he was still, staring into Lestrade's eyes, eyes fierce, body held defiantly. 'No.' He said again quietly. And then he was gone. John stood for a moment staring at the space Sherlock had just left, then up at Lestrade who just shrugged. John jolted into action as he heard the front door slam.

John clattered down the stairs after Sherlock and out into Baker Street. John caught sight of Sherlock just before he ducked into the narrow alleyway that led between number 37 and _McCullens & Sons Antiques_. John jogged down the street and stopped as he reached the head of the alleyway. Sherlock's back was turned to John and he watched in growing alarm as Sherlock slammed the heel of his right hand into the side of his head – just above his temple - once, twice, three times. Hard. The hand clenched tightly in Sherlock's hair and he yanked his hair tightly to one side, head and knees bent forward, his lanky frame forming an odd silhouette against the darkness of the alleyway. Just as John moved forward Sherlock let out a strange high pitched sound - half-grunt half-whine – it deepened and turned into a growl of frustration. A sound so unlike Sherlock that John just stopped. As abruptly as it started the sound stopped, and Sherlock's hand fell from his hair and hung loosely at his side. Then Sherlock's whole body just seemed to slump and crumple until he was crouched on the floor – hands pressed flat against the concrete of the alleyway floor. John saw rather than heard Sherlock take in two deep breaths and he seemed to rock slightly in his squat. John suddenly unsure of himself had retreated quickly back to the flat – uncertain of Sherlock's reaction to John having witnessed this private moment.

Sherlock had arrived back at the flat 20 minutes after John. Lestrade had taken the time to write out the case in his pocketbook and John had put the kettle on. Both actions seemed to agree with Sherlock whose eyes had lit up with understanding as he read through the list of names – occassionally mouthing one, soundlessly as he sipped from his tea cup. Lestrade had gratefully accepted a cuppa – he looked even more wrung-out than usual and leant back in his chair watching Sherlock through half-lidded eyes. Lestrade finished his tea and reached across the table to nudge the edge of his pocketbook that Sherlock was currently hunched over. Lestrade signed a question at Sherlock as he glanced up from his study. 'Any idea?' He spoke whilst he signed and John knew Sherlock always complained that the DI's sign was too English based (and his fingerspelling poor, at best). John had no idea if Lestrade had learnt sign for or perhaps from Sherlock – though he couldn't picture Sherlock having the patience to teach anyone anything, or if perhaps Lestrade had a Deaf family member or friend.

'Maybe. I need more time.' John could read that – just from the facial expressions.

'Ok – fine. Good. Thanks. Text me when you get anything.' Lestrade ripped a handful of pages from his pocket book, handed them to Sherlock and stood up to take his mug over to the sink.

After thanking John verbally Lestrade clapped a hand on Sherlok's shoulder as he took his leave – and Sherlock had deigned to look up at Lestrade and waved a 'No problem' at him. John would say he was proud – if that hadn't been an entirely patronising attitude to have. As it was Sherlock had been quick to look up at John and scan his face, nose wrinkled up – checking John's reaction. John had just smiled and taken a sip of his tea. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion and the he shook his head as if to banish the thought and turned back to Lestrade's notes.

John had already been thinking it really but after that event John thought there was something else, something else _wrong_ – not that Deaf was wrong. But there was something else in play. Just as it wasn't all about being Deaf John wasn't sure it was all about being a Genius either.

Later Sherlock tapped his finger down the long list of names involved in the case – making John say each one out loud – whilst he squinted at John's lips.

'It's not you. It's the sounds.' Said John in mild exasperation. And Sherlock carefully nodded at him.


	5. To See the Ducks

It was a Thursday morning that John found out Sherlock worked with interpreters. That's multiple people with the ability to interpret Sherlock.

Good news for communication.

John had stayed up late the night before watching a DVD box set. Sherlock had turned in early, or had at least headed into his room at the strangely, for him, reasonable hour of 10pm. John quickly seeing the advantage of the empty living room had opened up a DVD box-set that he had been meaning to watch. There had become a quiet joy for John in watching something without having the murderer revealed to him before the first character had finished their opening monologue. A simple pleasure in watching without having a grown man screaming at the TV, literally screaming at the TV that the plot conclusion _'Doesn't make sense!_' because for all Sherlock's silences he seemed to take perverse pleasure in reminding John, Mrs Hudson and the rest of the street that he had fully functioning vocal chords. John would catch him rubbing his neck after such a screaming session almost in apology to his own body. So having both the living room and the TV to himself had had John cracking open the milk chocolate hobnobs from his back up secret stash (the original secret stash having become mysteriously depleted), making a cup of tea and settling in for at least three more episodes of _The Killing _than he had intended. Crawling into bed at 3am, a cold and empty bed with not even a hangover for his troubles had only been, moderately depressing.

So it happened that John had found himself wandering downstairs late one Thursday morning to find a stranger in the living room. The stranger, a woman was over by the window, staring down at the street below –half leaning-half sitting with one hip propped up on the window sill.

John had lived with Sherlock long enough not to be shocked by unannounced visitors in the flat but not quite long enough to hide the surprise from his voice.

'Oh! Hello?'

The woman gave a start and whipped her head around towards John. 'Hello!' She said cheerfully. She pulled away from her perch by the window and strode forward her right hand outstretched towards John.

'I'm Emily.' She said and grinned at him. John briefly shook her hand and offered his name in return.

'Sherlock's flatmate right?' She replied, still smiling. John nodded warily. Sherlock's clients weren't usually quite so chipper. The woman was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with glossy dark brown hair pulled tightly back into a pony tail. She was dressed in smart black trousers, and wore a dark green mac tied at the waist; the colour must have been a deliberate choice as it drew attention to her sharp green eyes. She was pretty and John suddenly became acutely aware of his un-tucked shirt, stubble, bed hair and very potential morning breath. The stranger, the woman, _Emily_ continued to smile at him, but didn't offer anything further.

John smiled at her and raised his eyebrows in a short 'so then' shrug. Emily raised her eyebrows in return and continued to smile, thrusting her hands into her mac pockets. John smiled back. Emily smiled back. John glanced around the living room, looking for clues – maybe in the form of a 6ft madman. Emily followed his gaze around the room. John thrust his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and resisted the urge to check his flies were done up. Their eyes met again. John smiled and nodded. Emily smiled back. Emily looked down at her shoes, John followed her gaze – black, polished, professional shoes. John looked down at his own feet, wincing when he saw his bare, naked and hairy toes.

John broke first.

'Sorry. Look. Are you here to see Sherlock?'

Emily pulled her hands out of her mac and looked at John in surprise. 'Oh…'

But she was interrupted by the slam of a door and Sherlock bounding down the short hallway that led from his bedroom to the living room. Sherlock entered wrapping a dark blue scarf around his neck. John had opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that he had a client but snapped it shut and scratched nervously as the back of his head as Sherlock's gaze had already alighted on Emily. Without a glance at John he had pushed past his flatmate and stopped in front of Emily so they stood toe-to-toe (or rather shoe to shoe, John resisted the urge to cover one foot with the other). They stared at each other as Sherlock finished with his scarf. Then, to John's slight alarm Sherlock reached out and promptly grabbed Emily by the upper arms. He yanked her upwards so that she had to rise up onto the balls of her feet to maintain balance. Sherlock pushed her back slightly so that she was at arms-length and ran his eyes up and down her – in a calculating manner – that made John feel slightly uncomfortable. Sherlock was never one for personal space but this was a bit much.

John had been all for _un_-manhandling the situation, but then Emily had said.

'New shoes. Green coat that make my eyes pop! Thinking about getting a cat.'

Sherlock had winced slightly at that last one, and released her left arm so he could hold up two fingers of his right hand. _Two out of three?_ And then she had grinned up at him and said deliberately 'I used a clothes brush and changed before I came.' And Sherlock had said quite seriously in his softly rounded but deep voice 'Oh. I'm keeping you.'

And John was reminded, in a way of his first meeting with Sherlock and also strangely of Irene Adler but without quite the same level of unresolved sexual tension, without the riding crop and with more clothes. All of those things related to meeting Irene Alder not to John's first meeting with Sherlock. Although that had involved a riding crop. _Christ._ John blinked rapidly.

'Er. Hello? We're keeping what now?' John said as Sherlock released Emily so that she rocked back slightly on her heels.

Sherlock turned as if only just noticing John was there and threw some signs at him.

'Oh good you've both met.' John glanced over at Emily as she spoke.

'Interpreter. I'm his interpreter.' Explained Emily her hands pointed at Sherlock and made the sign for interpreter, briefly. Sherlock had frowned at them both at that, and then made a few quick signs, indicating at first Emily, then John. 'John I'm disappointed – have you two just been standing here smiling inanely at at each other this whole time!' Emily interpreted smoothly. Sherlock pulled a look with his face and then turned his back on them both and headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock was busily yanking open cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, and John felt slightly blindsided. He knew that Deaf people often worked with interpreters, but he assumed that Sherlock didn't. It would seem the kind of thing that Sherlock would shun, that kind of _support_. John watched as Sherlock slammed a drawer shut and frowned at it before spinning around and heading back down the corridor to his bedroom – because logic dictated that if you can't find what you want in the cutlery drawer – then it's probably in your bedside table. _Well it would be in this flat _thought John.

John turned back to Emily, who was frowning slightly.

'Sorry.' John apologised. 'I didn't know Sherlock had an interpreter.'

Emily shrugged off his apology and her eyes lit up slightly as she asked 'So what do you think he's looking for?'

John's initial guess of keys was waved off by Emily who guessed gloves. Soon they were both chuckling as their suggestions moved from the vaguely practical but hardly sublime to the clearly ridiculous. John was particularly proud of his back-up scarf suggestion. When Emily responded with portable forensic lab John had been compelled to ask 'Just how long have you been working with him?'

John had frowned at her answer of six months.

'Every Thursday since May. And other odd days. Though recently its' been a lot more often. And mainly not Thursdays. Mainly odd days in fact. In fact we may have mainly not ever done Thursdays…..' She trailed off. John could already picture a manic Sherlock hauling his interpreter out of bed at random hours of the morning to interpret at a murder scene or to interrogate the husband or wife of a suspect. He always thought that Sherlock took _John_ to murder scenes. John glumly concluded that something has gone wrong somewhere in his life if he'd started sulking about not being invited to a murder scene. And then Emily had explained that she wasn't the only interpreter that worked with Sherlock currently, and that she presumed he'd worked with interpreters before her, before May and John had felt oddly wrong-footed that he didn't know this thing about his flatmate. All these _people _that Sherlock knew.

It seemed that today was actually the first time that Emily had met with Sherlock at the flat. (_He told me to make myself comfortable and not to look in the fridge.)_ John apologised for the state of the flat, and the skull, and the lab equipment strewn across the kitchen table and for whatever was lurking in the fridge. Emily told him there was no need to apologise that she was sure most of the mess was Sherlock, she'd looked in the fridge already (_I'm pretending it was a bowl of gone off pickled onions.) _andshe'd already become acquainted with the skull. (_It's quite a complicated story, it involved a tricky situation with a security guard at the British Museum). _Say no more John had said and they'd laughed.

Sherlock suddenly reappeared in the living room this time shrugging his coat over his shoulders. His eyes flitted back and forth between them as their laughter died off, uncomfortable, as he always seemed with other people's mirth. Sherlock paused, his eyes quickly taking in John's dishevelled appearance, then he smirked and shook his head signing at John, his fingers wriggling towards John's feet.

'You really should wear socks if you're worried about your toes. Though Emily has seen much worse.' As Emily interpreted a faint blush appeared on her cheeks. John didn't want to imagine what that blush meant, considering he lived with Sherlock and had had several conversations about the meaning of closed doors, and two rather fraught and red-faced conversations about the particular meaning of a closed and locked bathroom door.

Sherlock who was fully dressed, thank god – John had seen quite enough of Sherlock to last a lifetime was hunched over his desk shoving aside piles of paper and other detritus, in search for his wallet, apparently as he triumphantly plucked it from under a pile of lined note books, which slid gracefully to the floor one after another. John didn't bother to analyse why the desk ranked second to the salad drawer as a potential lost wallet location. Sherlock waved off Emily's attempts to help tidy up, and John suspected that Sherlock only scooped up the pile of notebooks and dumped them back on the desk to stop Emily from doing it. Interesting.

'So where are you off to today, Sherlock?' Asked John ducking down to catch Sherlock's eye as Sherlock was tucking his wallet into his inside jacket pocket. Sherlock's answer was to flap a hand at Emily.

'To the bank today I think.' She waved at Sherlock. 'Bank? Right?' She queried and Sherlock nodded sharply. 'Somewhere on the other side of Regents Park.'

Of course Sherlock would have a bank next to Regents Park, John thought slightly morosely of his own NatWest bank card.

'I'm trying to persuade Sherlock to walk through Regents Park, not get a taxi.'

Sherlock threw his hands up at her. 'Boring. Parks are boring!'

'Regents Park is beautiful. And it has ducks!'

Sherlock mimicked back the sign for ducks childishly.

Emily just stared patiently back. As John said 'Sherlock!'

'You don't want to take a taxi because you get travel sick.' Sherlock accused Emily, ignoring John's frown.

Emily rolled her eyes, and the conversation went private for half a minute. John recognised the sign for taxi. There was obviously some debate. Then finally Sherlock turned abruptly without a word or a sign to John and thumped down the stairs.

'We're walking through the park.' Emily told John smugly. 'Sherlock says goodbye.'

Sherlock banged on the banisters and his voice called up. 'I do not say goodbye!'

Emily rolled her eyes again. 'Bloody mind-reader.' She said and her hands fluttered around her head.

'Not a mind-reader!' Yelled Sherlock. 'You're predictable!'

Emily glanced with frustration around the living room, looking for something.

'What can I do?' She said to John.

'What?'

'Something Sherlock wouldn't predict.'

Her eyes alighted on John and there's a Sherlockian mania to them that had John taking a step back. Suddenly Emily has both of his arms gripped in her hands mirroring how Sherlock had grasped her earlier, and John had about half a second to contemplate the implications of the relief he felt at the fact that he's more or less at eye-level with Emily before she had landed a big wet kiss on John's lips. The kiss lasted for only a brief moment – short enough for John not to react but long enough for him to start wondering. Emily pulled back with an exaggerated 'Mwah' sound.

'Sorry.' She said sheepishly, releasing his arms.

John just stared at her and Emily grinned wolfishly at him as Sherlock yelled up the stairs again;

'What are you doing? You usually dance. You always dance! You're always predictable.'

John didn't think he'd heard Sherlock's voice so much in one week, leave alone one day.

'I usually can't think of anything less predictable to do than dance.' Emily said as if that explained anything.

'Nice to meet you John.' And she shook his hand, and then she was off down the stairs after Sherlock. John wandered over to the window, absent mindlessly trying not to press his fingers against his lips. He watched as Sherlock and Emily walked down the street. Sherlock's hands and arms practically yelling as he walked backwards in front of Emily, unable to stop his chain of thought for something as boring as _walking_. John looked on faintly amused as Emily reached out and grabbed Sherlock to guide him to the left of a lamppost he was about to walk into.

Six months he'd been living with Sherlock. Six months of using basic sign skills ('Military sign language is not the same as BSL _John_.' 'Yeah but it's similar.' 'I refuse to get into column formation on principal John!' 'Right. Not so similar.'). Three months of scribbling on bits of paper and three months of having his grammar corrected by Sherlock, _before_ he answered the question. Three months of badly performed mime (on John's part of course 'Sign language is not _mime_.' Sherlock had sneered. And John had said 'Yeah. But it is, a little bit when you think about it.' Just to see the look on Sherlock's face.). And all along the sneaky bastard was meeting downstairs in Speedy's with not only a sign interpreter but someone who persuaded him to walk through the park to see the ducks. Someone pretty with a penchant for Sherlock-style surprise. John sighed. Was it bad form to ask out your flat mate's interpreter? He turned away from the window and caught sight of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Flies undone.

Probably best leave it.


End file.
